Apple Pie at the End of Times
by babybluecas
Summary: Dean bakes a pie for a special occasion.


In any other circumstances, Dean wouldn't get caught dead (by Sam) up to his elbows in butter and flour. But it's the end of times, so what the hell.

"Really, Dean?" Sam says, boring a hole into Dean's back with his bitchy glare. "God and zombies are running amuck and you're playing 'The Great British Baking Show?'"

"Well, since Netflix is no longer an option," Dean replies, promptly bringing his focus back to the recipe.

_Pour in cold water until you get proper consistency._ Proper. Sure, that's helpful. Thanks, old-ass notebook of scribbly recipes that will hopefully lead to a pie not a weird Men of Letter experiment.

"It's the end of the world! For real! We don't have time for—"

"Really?" Dean snaps, turning to Sam, who's got deep, dark circles under his eyes and a pile of books pressed to his chest like an overeager college boy. Except those books won't tell Sam shit. "I must have forgotten; what are we so busy doing? Oh, right, trying to find out what people did the last time God canceled the Truman Show." He takes a deep breath. It was supposed to be a nice, relaxing day—while _days_ are still an existing concept. "Listen, I'm losing my marbles here. I know we all are. And if we can't get a single win soon— I just need something to remind us why we're even trying."

Sam's shoulders slump, the grimace seeps off his face. He casts a quick glance at the books—the last few untouched volumes in the library—and gives in.

"Guess you're right," he admits, a little miserably, before shooting Dean a stupid, weirdly pointed grin. Dean's got flour all over his face, doesn't he? "Need any help?"

Dean lets on a small smile, as he turns back to the sadly-looking, yellow-ish pulp in the bowl. If this PSA break cost his dough its _proper consistency_ he's gonna be pissed.

"Nah, I'm good. I'll just finish this, then make something for dinner. We're not throwing a sweet sixteen here."

"Alright," Sam mutters, knuckles tapping against the hard covers. "Then I guess I'll, um—I'll keep trying."

"Yeah, right."

"Wait—" Sam's voice comes subdues, from the corridor, "is there like some occasion I'm missing?"

"Nope." Dean purses his lips. "Since when do we do that?"

With a "touché," Sam leaves Dean to finish making his apple pie in peace: the dough, the filling, the layering.

Not until the pie rests nicely in the hot oven, does Dean cast a sneaky glance around to make sure no one's watching, as he dives into their impromptu 'ritual' kit and pulls out the thinnest and relatively unused candles he can find.

**—**

"You lied to me!" Sam accuses, snatching the handmade paper hat Dean put on top of Cas's head.

"Yeah, sue me," Dean replies, putting another hat on Cas's head, which stiffens as if it was an egg in a shell, not a wrap of—

"Skin mags?" Sam says, half-offended, half-amused. "You made these out of skin mags?"

"Shut up and appreciate the sacrifice," Dean says, digging the lighter out of his pocket.

"What's going on?" Cas asks, confused, casting his eyes from Sam to Dean, head still, until Dean takes mercy on him and reaches to his hat, and pulls the elastic down under his chin.

Dean doesn't half-ass things, alright?

"Dean's throwing a birthday party," Sam offers. "Although none of us has a birthday anytime soon."

"That's where you're wrong, Sam." Dean winks at Cas, as he gets back to lighting up the candles he stabbed into the amazingly smelling pie. There are only three of them which is _a few_ too few, but it's the symbolism that matters. "One of us _does_ have a birthday today."

"Oh." Cas smiles, luckily catching Dean's drift. "It's been eleven years since I pulled you out of hell and restored your body, which marks your metaphorical rebirth. It's Dean's rebirthday."

Or…not catching it.

"No, Cas," Dean grunt, rolling his eyes. "Have you got any idea how many times I died and came back since? Who'd keep that score."

Cas opens his mouth to, undoubtedly, produce an exact number of times that Dean's died since Hell, but Dean beats him to it.

"It's _your_ birthday, dude."

That only earns Dean a squint from both his companions.

"I don't ha—"

"Yeah, yeah, you don't have a birthday, I know, we talked about this." Dean rolls his eyes. "You were born—"

"Created," Cas corrects, but Dean ignores him.

"—before the beginning of time. So now you're having a birthday party before the end of time. That's it."

Cas seems hesitant. He's probably got a lot of qualms regarding everything Dean's just said, but—whether it's because of the huge, anticipating grin on Dean's face or because of Sam's quasi-approving shrug—he nods, a soft smile playing at the corners of his lips.

"I think that's a good idea, Dean. Thank you."

"Alright." Dean claps his hands together. "Happy Birthday, Cas."

"Happy Birthday," Sam echoes.

Cas's smile widens and Dean could swear, if Cas's physiology let him, his cheeks would be flushed bright red.

"Well?" Dean waves at candles, slowly melting on the top of the birthday pie. "Make a wish, Cas."

Cas takes a moment, probably to think of something that's not too grim, yet not too foolishly optimistic. At last, he closes his eyes and blows the candles, all three at once.

"Great, now it has to come true," Dean says, lightly, as he clears the pie of the candles and begins to cut it into wide, delicious slices.

He might have really missed his call, there.

"I hope so," Cas says with a curious smile, as he takes the plate from Dean. There's no melancholy in this smile, no end-of-the-world sadness. Not today.

Today they're not thinking about God, or zombies, or their lives' work having been eradicated. Today they're celebrating and having fun.

And if later, when the party's over and Sam's back in his room, Dean happens to make Cas's wish come true, his lips on Cas's apple pie lips, well, that'll only make the celebration all that sweeter.


End file.
